i carry your heart, i carry it in my heart
by fin du globe
Summary: Three steps in a relationship to regret - the untimely beginning, the falling apart, and everything you've ever said and done and been. / Astoria, Michael, and the war that was their relationship.


**i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)**

* * *

Astoria,

You are  
such an  
arse-toe-rear.  
And I hope  
you die  
quite slowly  
and painfully.

Awaiting news  
of your demise,  
Michael.

—

Corner,

I think  
you are  
quite possibly  
certifiably  
insane.

Ticked off,  
A. Greengrass.

—

Greengrass,

Are you really  
that dumb?  
I think it's  
the weed  
in your name,  
is it not?

Funny,  
you never  
struck me  
as the type  
to do drugs.

And honestly?  
Splitting words up  
does not  
make it  
a poem.

MC

—

Oy you,

I think  
your name  
is sharper  
than your brain.

And guess what?  
Drugs  
are the best thing  
you're _ever_,  
_ever_,  
_ever_  
going to do.

Dude.  
Like,  
get laid.

Point  
reiterated  
in response  
to last stanza.

And trying  
to be anonymous  
really doesn't  
suit you.

Your stupidity  
kind of  
singles  
you  
out.

Now please  
fuck off.

—

Well,  
you started it.  
You aren't  
supposed  
to show old  
school yearbooks  
to someone's  
fiancé.

In fact,  
it's kind of  
your fault  
that I never  
get laid.

M. Corner.

—

Mt. Corner,

Nice to see  
that the smarts  
finally caught up.  
Too late,  
too little,  
though.

I don't suppose  
you're that fond  
of Firewhisky  
or pink flamingoes  
or handcuffs  
anymore?

All's fair—  
I still  
am single  
and it's only thanks  
to that bloody  
fiasco  
you caused  
last year.

Sincerely,  
Astoria Not-A-Well G.

—

Miss Greengrass,

All you've said  
applies to you  
too.

Maybe even  
especially.

Only  
you're still single  
but that's  
your own fault.

Corner.

—

M,

If you  
are trying  
that desperately  
to be funny,  
I suggest  
you write  
fucking limericks  
instead.

Anything to lessen  
my time span  
of torture.

And you're a liar.  
(Still.)  
You have never  
even  
changed  
one  
bit.

—

And your words  
are fucking gospel,  
is it?

Because I never,  
never loved you.

And don't pretend  
that you did.

That you never  
meant  
for this  
to happen.

Fucking Slytherin.  
Telling the truth  
with selfish intention.

—

You're some liar.

When you loved me  
(if you ever did)

you spoke in riddles  
as though walls  
couldn't hear;  
as though eyes  
couldn't see.  
(It was never  
about the words  
but the singular  
syllable  
that rolled off  
the tongue  
all barb and velvet.)

you wrote  
unrhyming  
poems  
on the verse  
of your sleeve  
where neither  
kept the heart

you kissed the flowers crushed beneath your feet  
let them bleed—  
just to make me come running.

So don't  
pretend.

(But never acknowledge it either.)

—  
You're correct, then.  
Put much thought  
into it, though.

So I assume  
that you know  
that it was never  
about the  
pink flamingoes  
or the handcuffs  
or the Firewhisky  
but .

Listen to yourself—  
The war's over.  
We  
are over.

—

You're wrong, Michael.  
You're wrong.

Slytherins  
don't wear  
their heart  
(if any)  
on their sleeves,  
nor their plans  
in their eyes,  
and we certainly  
are not  
ones  
of sentiment.

And you're wrong.  
Again.

We were the war, Michael.

We were the war.

—

Nothing  
would have  
happened  
if it weren't  
for the war.

I would never  
have kissed you  
(silver and blue—  
a combination that  
would never  
have worked  
anyway)—

under the stars  
because  
you would never  
have needed  
to know about  
Orion  
and  
if Aphrodite  
had a constellation.

I would never  
have licked the  
_blood_  
off your skin  
(like that)  
or the tears  
and mist that  
curtained  
our antics.

(And that  
is all  
they still are—  
antics.)

I would never  
have slammed you  
into the floor  
when I realised you  
were still alive,

and the bruises  
I marked  
onto  
your lips  
were never  
meant to be  
[ salty ].

Nothing  
would have  
happened  
if it weren't

for ashes scattered  
in the wind,

for the maw  
of grief that  
ripped us  
(both)  
bloody,

for the addiction  
to the sound  
of our  
cracking  
bones  
against the stained  
sheets  
of blood—  
where they always  
brought in  
the dead.

Nothing  
would have  
happened  
if it weren't  
for the war,

if it weren't  
for the need,

if it weren't  
for the psyche  
for the desire  
for the escapism  
for the stars  
for your

existence.

Nothing  
would have  
happened  
if it never.

—

then how can I? how?

to make black coffee in the mornings  
just so I would not  
dream of death  
at the desk,  
when a lifetime  
ago

we dripped caffeine  
into blood

to stay alive  
in the fight  
to stay awake  
away from nightmares'  
cold hands?

to gaze upon  
smiling, innocent  
children  
haloed by the morning glow  
we never felt,  
when eons ago

we saw  
soldiers fall  
to dust and bones  
just to save  
an impracticality  
to avoid  
immorality?

to feel moonlight  
fall in angles  
casting shadows  
upon my face,  
when Time-Turners ago

silverlight sheathed  
upon the mask  
like that -  
meant any mission  
that could end  
with shoeboxes filled  
with a body -  
a jack-in-the-box?

to wither away  
in the cold embrace  
of white walls at work,  
when so long ago

white walls  
meant insanity  
or capture  
or both  
by definition?

how do I live  
when I can't give up  
the instincts  
the heartlessness  
the heat  
the nerve  
the blood  
of a soldier  
but

still hold  
the wicked dream  
of a civilian  
before my eyes?

_How_?

—

Astoria,

there was once  
in a timeline separate  
from the immediate  
explosions of  
dust and robe  
magic and cruelty  
of war, when

I saw your eyes—

insanity.

(Still it haunts me.)

Maybe you  
will not read this  
but—

Maybe you won't  
quite remember,  
or maybe you  
won't want  
to,  
but—

I remember with the clarity  
of a rainy day.

Because,  
when we found you,  
I knew what  
insanity felt like.

(Maybe  
it was  
contagious.)

Your hands  
(so small)  
tied behind  
your back,

your body  
(so breakable)  
suspended  
by a single rope  
knotted  
against  
your wrists,

the corpses  
of dead house-elves  
hanging like chandeliers  
from your ankles.

flames constantly  
licking the soul  
at your feet.

(I doubt that  
they never knew  
about your  
pyrophobia.)

and later  
they told me  
that you had  
to face  
so many  
mock  
executions  
where they used  
your father's  
voice.

were you afraid?

that you  
would leave this world  
forever,

would never feel  
fresh air after  
cleansing rain  
again?

snowballs shoved  
down the hooded jacket,

happy bark of your dog  
before it tackled you?

I was.

I was so afraid  
I was going  
to lose you.

I would be  
so, so alone.

And I almost did,  
after  
we got you down  
and blew up  
the prison  
we found you in.

You,  
in a different world  
where it was  
torture—

for five months,  
thirteen days,  
six hours,  
and three minutes

that felt  
like eternities.

I remember

to drape  
white handkerchiefs  
over the words  
you scratched  
into the ground  
in hysteria,

afraid  
to even look  
at them

to freeze  
in the darkness  
because  
I couldn't even  
stare  
into the hearth  
without thinking of you –

strung up and hopeless,  
gone—

to kill even  
the most  
vicious of house-elves,  
servants of the evil,  
because I kept imagining  
how they slain them  
before your eyes

to sleep in the dark

because that  
was how  
they got you

and so much  
more.

Astoria,

I can't look at you  
without ever  
being afraid  
of losing you.

And I am so, so sorry.

Love,  
Michael.

—

Mother always says,  
that relationships  
are a three-step  
problem.

Confession,  
foolishness,  
and then,  
marriage.

Ours was different—

It never  
meant anything  
at Hogwarts,

just a stupid  
self-destruction

because

life and death  
diverged at the stained  
point of ancestry  
and I had  
the chemical defect  
found  
on the losing  
side  
and a cloak  
in silver  
and green  
could be easily  
tainted  
by red.

because

you had a history  
of failed relationships  
behind you,  
and your parents  
could die anytime  
and wars aren't for you  
and you're a Ravenclaw  
but getting  
in cahoots  
with Potter  
never does anything  
but worry you  
and defy logic,  
and your sister,  
in Slytherin,  
she's risking so much  
by helping you,  
but where  
could you go  
without her?

because

we were both  
broken blue spark circuits  
and even when we kissed  
it wasn't fireworks,

just  
awkward angles

a temporary reprieve  
from the world

looking glass  
at how fucked-up  
everything  
was getting.

And you would  
whisper poor lies  
into my mouth,  
gently,  
as though they  
were fragile,

and I would  
laugh  
them off,  
and drag  
you in closer,  
into  
the  
darkness  
(how scary it is  
to be alone).

we inked poems  
into columns,  
as though they were prayers  
that could  
be answered.

It was all  
so  
damned  
foolish.

And it was  
never even  
love.

And then  
came the war,  
like a hurricane  
that flung us  
against the world—

a tangle of limbs,  
always breathing  
too loud  
too hard.

Looking for hope in imperfections,  
I kissed the hand  
that struck down  
a man, without  
any remorse.

You bit  
at my lips  
too hard,  
drawing blood,  
because

you thought of  
my sister  
or my cousin  
or my blood  
that burned up  
the ground.

Such a mess.

And we  
held hands  
as the world  
blew apart  
like asteroids herding  
spaceships,

a single train  
of thought  
that stayed constant

that we could  
pretend was  
tangible,  
in the mess  
that was  
the war.

Co-dependency,  
camaraderie,  
allies,  
anything.

It was just  
wanting a distraction  
from the fear  
of dying  
or living  
but being afraid  
of crying  
when we lost  
the other;

and it never  
would have happened  
if it weren't  
for the war,

because

You kissed me  
and maybe others  
and maybe a life  
in front  
of a marble coffin  
when you were  
**sixteen**  
and when I was  
**fourteen**.

And I still  
think of you,  
sometimes,  
at the night,  
when it is cold  
and the sheets  
more so—

the way  
you tortured  
the man who killed your father  
again and again  
and again—

_Crucio_, until  
it was familiar  
on your tongue  
(but not  
as familiar  
as mine)

and laughed  
when he begged  
and in the end  
I killed him.

Because he looked  
like your father,  
you bit out,  
into my mouth,  
teeth cutting  
my lips  
like razors.

The cigarette smoke  
that you blew  
into my hair,  
white nicotine your comfort  
when the snow  
during Christmas  
was redder  
than white.

The taste  
of Firewhisky  
on your  
tongue,  
much too often,  
when I closed  
your bloodshot  
eyes with  
my cold,  
cold fingers.

You would sneer  
because you needed  
something stronger  
than coffee,

and I would never  
clean up the wounds  
on your flesh  
from broken glass,  
because  
I would be  
too busy  
creating more.

You went into relapse once,  
when they  
held us prisoner  
in the Manor.

Your skin  
was so pale,  
in my fever,  
I once thought  
you were a seraphim.

Your eyes glassed over  
so many times.

I held your hand,  
cold and still. Watched  
your breathing,  
laboured in the night,  
afraid for  
the rise and fall  
of your chest.

In delirium,  
I heard you  
cry out  
for your father,

I heard you weep  
for your sister,  
your mother.

Over again,  
the screams  
that accompanied  
my dreams to sleep.

I broke  
your bones  
when you tried  
to strangle me,  
once.

And I didn't  
even  
frown.

And when we got out,  
you pissed the beds  
at night whenever  
you dreamt  
of the hallucinations  
or how they  
beat us.

Your eyes still glassed over  
whenever you heard  
the name—

_Malfoy_.

You even drank more,  
just not wine,  
but coffee,  
blacker than  
our souls.  
Kept away  
the shackles  
fevered dreams  
brought.

We were  
the grime  
scraped off  
the drop-off point  
in the world,

balancing on  
a last act  
of sanity.

Then the world  
and other worlds  
crashed down  
from the weight  
of holding  
so many corpses  
and everyone  
tried  
to go back  
to 'normal'.

We brushed our teeth,  
did the laundry,  
laughed at cold jokes,  
acted like deaf men.

Tried to run  
from Mnemosyne's  
dark servants  
and Dionysus'  
grapevines that sought  
to bring us back  
to madness.

The end of  
anything –

all _could've been_  
and _maybe_.

Mother always says  
relationships  
are a three-step  
problem.

And ours  
ended  
in regret.

Goodbye,  
Astoria Malfoy.

—

Astoria,

Don't marry him.

Please.

Love,  
Michael.

* * *

**A/N: **Idek. *facepalm* Anyway, beta'd again by Clarissa&Wei Tian. Own nothin' but them mistakes. Written for the 2012 M&MWP competition. Poetry is hard. Oh, and, because I'm a terrible person, I have no idea how else to say that the time span between the letters vary.

Review?


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